by Elmer Kelton
He could see the shape of the cabin now. “Right up to the door, Rachal!”
He jumped to the ground, letting his eyes sweep the yard and what he could see of the corrals. “Don’t get down,” he shouted. “Let me look inside first.”
The door was closed, as they had left it. He pushed it open and stepped quickly inside, the rifle ready. The dying embers in the fireplace showed him he was alone. “It’s all right. Get down quick, and into the cabin!”
She slid down and fell, and he helped her to her feet. She pointed and made a cry. Several figures were moving rapidly toward the shed. Matthew fired the rifle in their general direction and gave Rachal a push toward the door. She resisted stubbornly. “The horses,” she said. “Let’s get the horses into the cabin.”
She led her dun through the door, though it did not much want to go into that dark and unaccustomed place.
Matthew would have to admit later—though he had no time for such thoughts now—that she was keeping her head better than he was. He would have let the horses go, and the Indians would surely have taken them. The plow horse was gentler and entered the cabin with less resistance, though it made a nervous sound in its nose at sight of the glowing coals.
Matthew heard something plunk into the logs as he pushed the door shut behind him and dropped the bar solidly into place. He heard a horse race up to the cabin and felt the jarring weight of a man’s body hurled against the door, trying to break through. Matthew pushed his own strength upon the bar, bracing it. A chill ran through him, and he shuddered at the realization that only the meager thickness of that door lay between him and an intruder who intended to kill him. He heard the grunting of a man in strain, and he imagined he could feel the hot breath. His hair bristled.
Rachal opened the front-window loophole and fired her rifle.
Thunder seemed to rock the cabin. It threw the horses into a panic that made them more dangerous, for the moment, than those Indians outside. One of them slammed against Matthew and pressed him to the wall so hard that he thought all his ribs were crushed. But that was the last time an Indian tried the door. Matthew could hear the man running, getting clear of Rachal’s rifle.
A gunshot sounded from out in the night. A bullet struck the wall but did not break through between the logs. Periodically Matthew would hear a shot, first from one direction, then from another. After the first three or four, he was sure.
“They’ve just got one gun. We’ve got two.”
The horses calmed, after a time. So did Matthew. He threw ashes over the coals to dim their glow, which had made it difficult for him to see out into the night. The moon was up, throwing a silvery light across the yard.
“I’ll watch out front,” he said. “You watch the back.”
All his life he had heard that Indians did not like to fight at night because of a fear that their souls would wander lost if they died in the darkness. He had no idea if the stories held any truth. He knew that Indians were skillful horse thieves, in darkness or light, and that he and Rachal had frustrated these by bringing their mounts into the cabin.
Burk had said the Indians on these September raids were more intent on acquiring horses than on taking scalps, though they had no prejudice against the latter. He had said Indians did not like to take heavy risks in going against a well-fortified position, that they were likely to probe the defenses and, if they found them strong, withdraw in search of an easier target.
But they had a strong incentive for breaking into this cabin.
He suggested, “They might leave if we turn the horses out.”
“And what do we do afoot?” Rachal’s voice was not a schoolgirl’s. It was strong, defiant. “If they want these horses, let them come through that door and pay for them. These horses are ours!”
Her determination surprised him, and shamed him a little. He held silent a while, listening, watching for movement. “I suppose those Indians feel like they’ve got a right here. They figure this land belongs to them.”
“Not if they just come once a year. We’ve come here to stay.”
“I wish we hadn’t. I wish I hadn’t brought you.”
“Don’t say that. I’ve always been glad that you did. I’ve loved this place from the time we first got here and lived in the wagon, because it was ours. It is ours. When this trouble is over it will stay ours. We’ve earned the right to it.”
He fired seldom, and only when he thought he had a good target, for shots inside the cabin set the horses to plunging and threshing.
He heard a cow bawl in fear and agony. Later, far beyond the shed, he could see a fire building. Eventually he caught the aroma of meat, roasting.
“They’ve killed the milk cow,” he declared.
Rachal said, “We’ll need another one, then. For the baby.”
That was the first she had spoken of it, though he had had reason lately to suspect. “I shouldn’t have put you through that ride tonight.”
“That didn’t hurt me. I’m not so far along yet. That’s one reason we’ve got to keep the horses. We may need to trade the dun for a milk cow.’’
They watched through the long hours, he at the front window, she at the rear. The Indians had satisfied their hunger, and they were quiet, sleeping perhaps, waiting for dawn to storm the cabin without danger to their immortal souls. Matthew was tired, and his legs were cramped from the long vigil, but he felt no sleepiness. He thought once that Rachal had fallen asleep, and he made no move to awaken her. If trouble came from that side, he thought he would probably hear it.
She was not asleep. She said, “I hear a rooster way off somewhere. Burk’s, I suppose. Be daylight soon.”
“They’ll hit us then. They’ll want to overrun us in a hurry.”
“It’s up to us to fool them. You and me together, Matthew, we’ve always been able to do whatever we set our minds to.”
They came as he expected, charging horseback out of the rising sun, relying on the blazing light to blind the eyes of the defenders. But with Rachal’s determined shouts ringing in his ears, he triggered the rifle at darting figures dimly seen through the golden haze. Rachal fired rapidly at those horsemen who ran past the cabin and came into her field of view on the back side. The two horses just trembled and leaned against one another.
One bold, quick charge and the attack was over. The Comanches swept on around, having tested the defense and found it unyielding. They pulled away, regrouping to the east as if considering another try.
“We done it, Rachal!” Matthew shouted. “We held them off.”
He could see her now in the growing daylight, her hair stringing down, her face smudged with black, her eyes watering from the sting of the gunpowder. He had never seen her look so good.
She said triumphantly, “I tried to tell you we could do it. You and me, we can do anything.”
He thought the Indians might try again, but they began pulling away. He could see now that they had a considerable number of horses and mules, taken from other settlers. They drove those before them, splashing across the creek and moving north in a run.
“They’re leaving,” he said, not quite believing.
“Some more on this side,” Rachal warned.
“You’d better come over here and look.” Through the loophole in her window, out of the west, he saw a dozen or more horsemen loping toward the cabin. For a minute he thought he and Rachal would have to fight again. Strangely, the thought brought him no particular fear.
We can handle it. Together, we can do anything.
Rachal said, “Those are white men.”
They threw their arms around each other and cried.
They were outside the cabin, the two of them, when the horsemen circled warily around it, rifles ready for a fight. The men were strangers, except the leader. Matthew remembered him from up at the forks. Excitedly the man spoke in a language Matthew knew was German. Then half the men were talking at once. They looked Rachal and Matthew over carefully, making sure neither was hurt.<
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The words were strange, but the expressions were universal. They were of relief and joy at finding the young couple alive and on their feet.
The door was open. The bay plow horse stuck its head out experimentally, nervously surveying the crowd, then breaking into a run to get clear of the oppressive cabin. The dun horse followed, pitching in relief to be outdoors. The German rescuers stared in amazement for a moment, then laughed as they realized how the Waylands had saved their horses.
One made a sweeping motion as if holding a broom, and Rachal laughed with him. It was going to take a lot of work to clean up that cabin.
The spokesman said something to Matthew, and Matthew caught the name of Burk Kennemer. The man made a motion of drawing a bow, and of an arrow striking him in the shoulder.
“Dead?” Matthew asked worriedly.
The man shook his head. “Nein, nicht tod. Not dead.” By the motions, Matthew perceived that the wounded Burk had made it to the German settlement to give warning, and that the men had ridden through the night to get here.
Rachal came up and put her arm around Matthew, leaning against him. She said, “Matthew, do you think we killed any of those Indians?”
“I don’t know that we did.”
“I hope we didn’t. I’d hate to know all my life that there is blood on this ground.”
Some of the men seemed to be thinking about leaving. Matthew said, “You-all pen your horses, and we’ll have breakfast directly.” He realized they did not understand his words, so he pantomimed and put the idea across. He made a circle, shaking hands with each man individually, telling him thanks, knowing each followed his meaning whether the words were understood or not.
“Rachal,” he said, “these people are our neighbors. Somehow we’ve got to learn to understand each other.”
She nodded. “At least enough that you can trade one of them out of another milk cow. For the baby.”
When the baby came, late the following spring, they named it Burkett Kennemer, after the man who had brought them warning, and had sent them help.
That was the last time the Comanches ever penetrated so deeply into the hill country, for the military pressure was growing strongly.
And all of his life Burkett Kennemer Wayland was able to say, without taking sinful advantage of the truth, that he had been present at the last great Indian fight in Kerr County.
Living in Texas again after many years of travel and residence abroad, and thirty-three years as a professor of English at the University of Arizona, L. D. Clark is the author of fourteen books, including seven novels and three volumes of short fiction. He is also a well-known scholar and critic of the works of D. H. Lawrence and a historian, in particular of Civil War times. He is now at work on a book of reminiscences and commentary on the great changes that have taken place in our world during his long lifetime. In this collection, we have provided a special treat, a screenplay by L. D. Clark, “Reapers of the Whirlwind,” based on his novel A Bright Tragic Thing. www.ldclark.net.
Reapers of the Whirlwind
L. D. Clark
Based on his novel:
A BRIGHT TRAGIC THING
Note: This eBook version of “Reapers of the Whirlwind” will not be in proper screenplay format. To view in proper format, please contact the author or purchase the print version of this story collection.
FADE IN:
On a BLACK SCREEN the following TEXT is SUPERIMPOSED for A FEW SECONDS:
They have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind
Hosea 8:7
EXT. RIVER VALLEY - DAY
HIGH ANGLE SHOT of RED RIVER looking upstream.[Suggested Music: "Red River Valley"] Prairie ridges and timbered draws on R. (Indian Territory) and also on L. (Texas). Stream cuts through thick brakes except for a wide cleared section on the Texas side. On a rise in this open ground, a short distance back from the river, stands a PLANTATION MANOR: two-story, oblong, dazzling white, with wide front verandahs on each floor. A flight of steps leads down from the front door, and directly before the house are well-kept grounds.
SLAVE CABINS, BARNS, CORRALS and other outbuildings can be seen spreading out behind the house and off to R. toward the river. To the L. running far back are fields where several slaves are picking cotton. One SLAVE is carrying a full sack over his shoulder toward a big wagon at a field edge. Another SLAVE stands in the wagon emptying his sack. Near the wagon a mounted man in common clothes, an OVERSEER, sits at ease in the saddle but watchful.
EXT. RIVER VALLEY
DOLLY IN to MIDDLE DISTANCE and PAUSE briefly while the following text is SUPERIMPOSED:
RED RIVER VALLEY - FALL 1862
followed in a moment by
OLDHAM PLANTATION
EXT. TEXAS PRAIRIE - DAY
SLOW PAN L. Out of bottom S. Moving over RIDGES and DRAWS onto level Texas PRAIRIE. Widely scattered FARMHOUSES with MID-SIZED FIELDS and PASTURES are seen.
EXT. PRAIRIE- DAY
PAN stops over open prairie for THIRTY SECONDS while the following text is SUPERIMPOSED:
The Red River counties of Texas, with few but powerful slaveholders, still voted heavily against seceding from the Union, and resistance to the Confederacy continued throughout the Civil War. In 1862, Unionists in the region formed a secret league to defy the South, by armed uprising if necessary. When Confederate leaders got wind of this budding conspiracy, they responded with brutal suppression.
EXT. PRAIRIE-DAY
PAN moves on L. Across prairie. As it does, the following TEXT is SUPERIMPOSED:
(NAME OF PRODUCTION COMPANY)
PRESENTS
REAPERS OF THE WHIRLWIND
EXT. FRONTIER TOWN - DAY
PAN continues slowly across a typical frontier town. On a square in the center stands a TWO-STORY wooden COURTHOUSE. The only other TWO-STORY BUILDING is across the STREET E. of the courthouse. One-story frame houses and cabins make up the rest of the town. Ordinary small-town activities are in progress. The FOLLOWING TEXT is briefly SUPERIMPOSED:
MILCOURT, TEXAS
EXT. WOODED COUNTRY - DAY
PAN continues across an oak-timbered region lying E. And S. of Milcourt. and stops on the following scene, identified by SUPERIMPOSED TEXT as:
BLAIR HOMESTEAD
We see A DOUBLE LOG CABIN, LOG BARN and POLE CORRAL etc. in a large glade with woods all around except for the southern downslope toward a stream the cabin faces. A large GARDEN/ORCHARD and a COTTON FIELD with bolls opening are seen partway down the slope.
EXT. BLAIR HOMESTEAD - JUST BEFORE SUNDOWN
NATHANIEL BLAIR (PAP), in his mid-40s, black-bearded, sits in a chair under a big post oak in front of the cabin, playing "Sweet Nellie" on his country fiddle. MAHULDAH BLAIR (MA), in her late 30s, stands over a dishpan at a low shelf built onto the cabin wall, washing dishes.
CORDELIA (SIS), 17, comes out of the cabin carrying a dishpan full of steaming water, sets it down on the shelf next to Ma, begins rinsing and drying the dishes. SCOOTER, age 2, sits on the ground by the cabin doorstep absorbed in playing. TODD, 18, is busy saddling a white horse at the corral.
MONTECRISTO, 12, and JENK, 10, sit on the top rail of the corral fence watching Todd. Everyone in the scene is absorbed in the music.
EXT. BLAIR HOMESTEAD, AREA IN FRONT OF CABIN - NEAR SUNDOWN
Ma sits down on the cabin doorstep and takes Scooter in her lap. Sis stands near. Off to L. Todd is seen leading the saddled horse toward the cabin, accompanied by Jenk and Montecristo.
Pap looks up to see Todd arriving with the horse. He breaks off playing before the tune is quite finished, stands up, hands the fiddle to Sis, takes the reins from Todd.
PAP
(sighing)
Well, I'll see you sometime tonight.
MA
Y'all watch out for them rebels now. They might sneak up on you even away back in the woods.
PAP
Oh, we'll keep a sharp eye out.
As Pap is mounting, Todd speak
s:
TODD
Lemme go with you, Pap. Some Union fellers no older'n me're in on this.
Pap looks down at Todd from the saddle.
PAP
No, son. One of us has to stay here with Ma and the kids.
Pap rides away into the woods. The others watch him go.
EXT. BLAIR HOMESTEAD - A FEW DAYS LATER - DAY
A serene fall sky with scattered clouds. [Suggested Music: "Tenting on the Old Campground"]. THREE FIGURES are seen to the L. of the cabin. One is a man standing by a horse holding Sis in his arms. They kiss quickly. He mounts and rides away.
Sis comes running forward, Ma from nearby hurrying after her. Sis halts and begins waving her apron frantically as she looks down the slope. Ma stops beside her. Scooter toddles around a corner of the cabin and clings to Ma's skirt. Ma cups both hands to her mouth and shouts:
MA
Todd!
She peers into the distance, then cups her hands as before and shouts again.
MA (CONT'D)
(louder)
Todd! Todd!
Montecristo and Jenk come running out of the cabin and hover near their mother.
EXT. LOOKING AWAY DOWN SLOPE FROM FRONT OF CABIN
We see Todd on horseback on the opposite slope across a small stream, driving some cows. He sees and hears, and comes pelting home. We observe Todd's horse, COMANCHE, as he rides in: a shaggy brown pony, hammer-headed and churn-legged, but for all that the smartest and fastest horse God ever created.